


Little Bird

by redborya



Series: Everything In It's Right Place [1]
Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Boris Pavlikovsky - Freeform, Canon-Typical TW's, Canon-Typical drug and alcohol abuse/mention, Confessions, Emotional torment, First Kiss, Gay, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Overdose, M/M, Mostly Movie, The Goldfinch, adult boreo, boreo, boreo angst, boreo cuddles, boreo fix it fic, boreo fluff, boreo kiss, both book and movie plotlines, coming to terms with feelings, goldfinch fix it fic, happy ending I promise, kind of cannon, kinda angsty, kinda happy, lots of emotional torment, only rated teen because of swearing, plz excuse my poorly translated russian, repressed sexuality, theo decker - Freeform, theyre in their twenties, theyre so fucking gay, very emotional, why do half of all my otp's have wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redborya/pseuds/redborya
Summary: Recently went through ~heavy editing~ so enjoy some reworked fic with better descriptions, pacing, and a tad more clarity in the earlier chapters! Enjoy <3______________________________"As long as I am acting out of love, I am doing the best I know how,"-Boris Pavlikovsky______________________________With The Goldfinch retrieved (and returned) Theodore Decker is left in Amsterdam wondering where to go and what to do from there. It seems simple enough at first. Return to New York, marry Kistey, and continue on his life as he had before. Boris, however, suggests the complete opposite.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Series: Everything In It's Right Place [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141223
Comments: 20
Kudos: 88





	1. Stay

It had been nearing the two-day mark of Theo having last seen Boris. They had parted ways at the cheap café in Amsterdam. After a week's worth of radio silence from Boris, Theo had expected at least some form of communication in the days between his scheduled departure from the Netherlands. Yet, there was nothing. Boris had simply offered to pick up the check, his own plate was scraped clean, which made Theo feel all the more guilty. He hadn't even touched as much as an egg yolk, opting instead to drink cup after cup of the bitter espresso just to get something in his stomach. Theo protested letting Boris pay for both their meals, desperate for some sort of consolidation that he didn't spend the last hour and a half, crying over a cup of coffee in some obscure breakfast place. By the time Theo had even come to the realization that he had left his (mostly empty) wallet in his hotel room, Boris had already laid a handful of banknotes on the table, more than enough to cover their meals, and was tugging Theo towards the door, the cold Christmas Day air stinging his cheeks. Apart from the coffee, Theo had plenty else to digest when he returned to his room, and he was positive any food in his system would have made him feel even more sick.

The painting, _his_ painting had been returned safely to the proper authorities. Boris, by some means, had managed to get his hands on reward money in addition to securing the painting. The full reward was delivered to both of them, more than Theo had seen in his entire life, all to be transferred to his bank account, just as Boris promised with a swift pat to the shoulder. Millions of dollars were unjustly handed over to them both for information about The Goldfinch, when in reality, Theo was just as guilty as Sasha. It had been Theo who took the painting from the wreckage all those years ago, not Horst, Sasha, or any of the numerous associates Boris rattled off over plates of untouched scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. Now, all Theo could do was continue to mope about his hotel room, only this time without any drugs, riddled with fever, and occasionally making the effort to slowly trudge his way from his room down to the street to smoke watching as the pack dwindled. 

The one question that stuck most prominently in his mind, regrettably, was about the money. While his mother was still alive, they had never been the _most_ financially stable, even while his dad was still around. Still, Theo always had new shoes and clean clothes that fit him right, his glasses were always up to date, and weekends were spent going to the movies or poking into museums with his mother. They weren't wealthy by any means. Living from paycheck to paycheck, sure, but they were happy and always had food in their stomachs and clothes on their backs. Las Vegas was entirely different. Always splitting whatever money Theo happened into down the middle with Boris. The feeling of finding twenty dollars almost comparable to winning the lottery. Stealing things like apples and steaks just to fill their bellies. Never before had Theo had his hair as long as he had in Vegas, unwilling to spend money on something as superficial as that when Boris could easily hack away at it just to keep it from falling in his eyes. What he would have given, at any point in his life to have happened into as much as a thousand dollars, much less a couple million. Even saying a couple million, to what was slowly trickling into his bank account, was modest, and he had acquired each penny of it from a lie. Rewarded for a crime he had committed.

How Boris managed to spin such a story to avoid any sort of suspicion still amazed Theo, no matter how many times Boris recounted it. Not to mention, Theo was left to question how he was going to explain it all to Kitsey. To Hobie. To Mrs. Barbour. Not only the money but ditching his own engagement party with a stranger and disappearing for a week. It seemed as though the most simplified explanation wouldn’t suffice. Running away to Amsterdam right before Christmas was kind of hard to explain away, even for a storyteller as gifted as Boris, and that is if you chose to leave out the multiple felonies Theo committed overseas. There was the possible excuse that Boris had wanted to surprise Theo with a bachelor party, old friends reunited, time spent drinking away Theo's remaining freedom before he tied the knot. That could work, and Theo was near positive Boris could come up with some elaborate story and details of the night if he so much as asked. Hell, he’d even get Gyuri or somebody to write up a fake receipt from the bar they 'visited .' if only Theo hadn't already had his version of a bachelor party. The so-called 'party' was organized entirely by Platt. That part is obvious enough though since the venue of choice was some shitty downtown strip club. The whole evening was spent between the three of them. Theo himself, Toddy, and Platt drinking into the early hours of the morning. The remaining Barbour brothers. Andy’s absence became painfully obvious as the night wore on. They swallowed shots after shots, cheers-ing to Theo's loss of freedom with each round, and it slowly became more and more obvious how little Theo knew about his future brother-in-law's.

On the other hand, instead of some elaborate lie, there was the truth, but even the thought of it sent Theo into a spiral, itching for a bump to ease the nervous tension and fade away into the static of his mind. There simply was no way to tell it without tracing each moment, each point of his life, every decision, struggle, and choice down to that rainy day in the MET, and no matter from what angle he chose to tell it, it sounded absolutely insane. And then there was Boris. 

For years he had struggled to find a way to label their bond. Friendship was far too casual, too shallow for the lengths they would (and have) gone for one another. Best friend was childish, immature, and reserved for middle school girls, something Theo was definitely _not_. From there, Theo was met with nothing. Partners in crime was a cheesy saying, it was true, but cheesy as fuck. Brothers, however, seemed a step too far in the wrong direction, and despite it making his palms sweat and throat squeeze shut, brothers was too far, especially taking into consideration the blurry nights in Vegas, the air thick in their lungs and hands desperately searching the dark desperate for one another. Brothers, certainly not. Boris’s whole existence was bizarre. If Kitsey had caught a glimpse of Boris, the Boris Theo knew back in Vegas, she would have turned her nose up in an instant. His wild curly hair and his unorthodox accent, stinking of chlorine, cigarettes, and sweat was far from meeting _any_ of her standards. However, if she had somehow managed to glimpse him at their engagement party through the sea of people, she would have shrugged and assumed it was somebody's plus one, her ability to put names to faces continuously astounding Theo. Boris, as far as Theo was concerned, seemed perfectly in place among the rest of the guests. This new Boris seemed opposite of his younger counterpart, on the outside at least. Frankly, it unnerved Theo. His fancy suits, smart coats and shoes, his new short-cropped hair, and obviously improved hygiene. Only the second he opened his mouth, the European-businessman façade wavered. His accent alone would be enough to worry the Barbour's, some Slavic spy intruding on their lives would worry them senseless. Then there was the point of his crude language, the random outbursts of laughter and bizarre humor. With someone as strange as that, Theo was sure they would question what kind of bond they shared as kids. What kind of relationship did they have that allowed Boris to convince Theo to leave his engagement party at a moment's notice? Hell, what power did he have to convince Theo to leave the country without a second thought? That was something Theo never would want to answer, simply because he had no idea how he would.

* * *

Sighing, Theo pinched the bridge of his nose, the cold air stinging his nostrils. Clearly sitting outside on the hotel pool’s patio in the dead of a Norther-European winter wasn't the brightest idea. However, he couldn't bring himself to care. Anything was better than standing in front of the doors to the hotel, feverish and disheveled like a ghost at the end of an abandoned hallway. Plenty of passersby tossed him a quick look, and tonight, he couldn't take it. He needed to be alone. Alone with a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers and a blanket from the hotel room wrapped around his shoulders. Theo shivered, mulling the last day's events in his head. The umbrella above him that he’d opened for some unknown reason, maybe out of habit, or a sense of privacy, blocking out the smattering of stars. Overhead and the moon was reduced to a sliver in the sky. Snow coated the entire ground, and the cold seeped through Theo’s shoes. If anything would give him some clarity, he had reason to believe it would be the sharp sting of cold air against his face.

“Potter!” Theo jumped in his chair, twisting around as the heavy glass doors that branched off from the hotel's lobby, and lead into the pool patio swung open and clanged shut in a matter of seconds. Boris strode inside, his heavy coat flapping behind as he tramped through the snow, over to the table where Theo was seated. The next thing Theo knew, before he even managed to say hello, Boris was pulling up a seat for himself, grumbling something about how ridiculous something or other is. With a sweep of his left arm, he brushed the snow off the chair and plopped down across from Theo, throwing his arm up on the table next to Theo's pack of cigarettes. He raised his eyebrows, giving Theo a quick once over, eyes landing on the blanket that was obviously yanked right from the hotel bed. Boris raised his eyebrows, Theo picking up the wordless gesture. _Nice one, Potter_. Tilting his chair backward the slighted bit, Boris crosses his arms across his chest and glances at the deserted patio.

“A pool? In December? You are crazy, Potter.” Boris comments, a smug smile plastered onto his face unearths his own pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Flicking open a lighter, he quickly lights it and takes a long drag. The two red glowing cigarette butts stick out like pinpricks in the dark floating in the air as they shiver, a trail of smoke ghosting behind in the blackness. Half of Boris’s face is obscured by the heavy darkness as well, cheeks hollowed out in shadow and the dim yellow lights from the hotel's hallway spilling into the pool area casting the parts of him visible in a sickly yellow glow. If anyone were to walk past, you'd have no way to tell the pair of them were sitting there except for the red glow of their cigarettes and the two sets of footprints in the otherwise undisturbed layer of snow.

“They’re crazy for not locking the doors,” Theo shrugs, “or putting a cover over the water in the winter,” he gestures broadly with one sweeping motion of his arm towards the water. Upon inspection, Theo seems to be correct. Maybe the staff had forgotten, or no one seemed to care, but the pool had remained without a cover throughout the fall and winter months. Leaves trapped on the surface of the water and underneath, frozen under a thin layer of ice, black and murky without the lights, some childish part of Theo's mind worries suddenly about a creature trapped under the depths, but the thought is brushed away in a blink of an eye. 

Never having been a fan of silence, Boris playfully kicks at the leg of Theo’s chair with the tip of his shoe, urging Theo on. _Say something, idiot_. Automatically, Theo takes the bait, as Boris knew he would, more than willing to allow himself to fall back into their old dynamic of poking fun at one another. 

“No one from your posse joining us tonight?” Theo teases. To be fair, it was partly a genuine question on his behalf. Ever since he’d seen Boris again it seemed as if they could never get a moment to themselves. If that was it was a good thing or not Theo didn’t know. He only knew there was the ever-present shape of Gyuri somewhere off to the side, not unwelcome, just a shadow from the corner of his eye, part of him desperately wanting to speak in earnest with Boris, without fear of being overheard by someone who knows them. Boris's friends, acquaintances, associates, whatever name you'd want to give to them, always laughed at Boris’s shitty jokes, politely introduced themselves to Theo when told. It was the same dance with every one of them. Not menacing, but a vague air of superficiality, just as Theo had felt with the Barbours, only this time instead of shiny jewelry, plastered on smiles and shallow hospitality, there was distrust, suspicion and the feeling of being watched, assessed, to ensure you didn't make the wrong move. 

“Gyuri dropped me off, but he won’t be joining us. Thought we should ‘have a talk’ since you are leaving soon. He said he will pick me up when I call,”

“A talk,” Theo echoes, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders. He frowns at Boris, though he doubts his expression is readable in the dark. Theo, personally felt there was nothing to discuss anymore. Not that he wished it to be that way, but there was the glaring fact of eight years spent apart. Theo, becoming something just short of a con-man in the antique arena, and Boris rising through the ranks of what Theo can only seem to describe, some sort of Soviet Mafia. While there might be many loose ends still between them, the painting felt like a final blow, the last act of their time spent together coming to some grand, felonious end, the rest of their history carefully ignored and stepped aside as they exchanged their final goodbyes. That's all Theo expected now, a straight-out goodbye. A farewell and a wish to keep in contact that neither of them would actually contribute towards. A final conclusion to the swirling questions Theo had harbored all those years. _Had Boris left Vegas? Did he move to Australia with his father? Did he finish school? Is he alive?_ All put to rest. Things would be too neat, too perfect if all those loose ends from their boyhood were to be tied up in this week spent in Amsterdam. All that seemed to matter, what Theo gratefully allowed to absorb all his focus was the painting, instead of the person before him. They had the painting back, not with them, sadly, but it was back where it was supposed to be. Theo thought that was it. 

“So you _are_ leaving then,” Boris cocks an eyebrow, almost as if he doesn't believe Theo as if he had been the one to have lied about a priceless work of art for nearly ten years.

“Day after tomorrow,” was all Theo responded. Curt and cut off, partly eager to get this farewell over with, and the other, stronger part of him, begging to live in this moment for eternity. As much as he wished it, Theo wasn't sure he was ready to truly say goodbye. 

“So soon?” Boris sounds as if he has been personally offended, and even if Theo could see him it wouldn’t have made any difference. The way the words left his mouth provided all Theo with all he needed to know in order to piece together Boris's expression, his voice was deeper now, sure, but he spoke just the same. 

“Soon? It’s been a week and a half.”

Boris jerks in his seat at the remark, the two front legs of his chair thumping down into the snow, “Exactly! Such short time! You are here already, yes? It is Christmas! Christmas in the Netherlands! It is one of the best times of the year, Potter! Why the rush to get back?"

“Christmas day was yesterday. It was Christmas and I left my fiancée at our engagement party.” Boris slumps in his seat like the brooding teens they had once been, throwing his left arm out to the side in exasperation across the table, the metal vibrating as he did so, his right arm still clutched close to his chest. “Even if I did want to stay, I don’t think I’d be able to enjoy myself in the slightest." Theo pauses to gauge Boris's reaction, slightly annoyed now was the time when he chose to remain silent. "Not to mention I don’t have the necessary clothes for December weather anyways,”

“Well really, you do-”

“But my coat is stained with someone else's blood-” Theo cuts Boris off before he can finish his snarky remark. How easily his admission to the state of his coat also shocked him. That was the blood of a dead man staining his coat in his hotel room's bathroom and yet he somehow threw the fact out there like he was discussing something as ordinary as the weather. It almost made him sick to think about it, as he had quite frequently these past days. Really, it was self-defense, but a man was still dead because of him, there was no avoiding that, so it was easier to push the thought from his mind altogether as if it was someone else entirely who had fired the gun. 

“I will buy you a new coat! Finest one I can find! We are rich, now! You could buy entire wardrobe just for your Amsterdam and it will not even make a dent in your wallet!”

“Boris,” Theo sighs again, stopping only to take a short puff from his cigarette, letting the smoke slip out of his mouth and mingle with his steamy breath in the air. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the idea of having more than enough money, but it was the way it came into his possession that riddled him with guilt. At least to Boris, money was money, no matter how he got it. “Even if I could buy myself a new coat, I doubt I'm going to actually spend any more time than necessary in Amsterdam.”

It's times like these when Theo fears as if Boris can read his mind because even in the darkness he can feel Boris's expression soften. Theo knew the look, his eyes still managing to convey the same shiny glint of understanding they did when they were younger, just barely visible from the dull lights seeping out of the lobby and into the abandoned pool deck where they sat, up to their ankles in snow, their breath producing just as much smoke in the air as their cigarettes. _Fuck was it cold_.

“Your bird," Boris’s voice is suddenly solemn. As he straightened in his chair and Theo could feel Boris's eyes boring into him, trying to gauge his reaction. Never before had Boris seemed afraid to cross a line, always spewing whatever thought crawls into his head without any sort of regard, tossing careless arms over shoulders and charging through life with reckless abandon, only now does he seem to slow down, for Theo. Even when they fought, the childish spits they got into that would be resolved in a matter of minutes, shouting hateful things across the living room at one another, Theo had always responded with just as much of a bite to his words as Boris. Now it seemed they were both walking on eggshells. To be fair, the subject was still raw,

“It was the only thing I had left of her.” The words are sour in Theo's mouth, unmistakably true, but it felt like a betrayal in itself to speak them out loud. To avoid any sort of addition from sputtering out or some apology on Boris’s behalf, Theo takes a long drag off of his cigarette. The smoke catching on a small gust of wind creating a temporary wall between the two.

“But it is safe now, yes?’

“I suppose so.” Boris seeming satisfied with the answer and lets a small smile creep onto his face, the lopsidedness of his grin hadn’t changed since childhood. For that Theo was glad, even more, so that when he spoke, still smiling, it appeared as though he was only talking out of one side of his mouth. Old habits die hard.

“That is good. Your bird is safe. My _маленькая птица_ , safe as well,” Boris beams, perfectly happy with the end result of these past weeks. Or years. Depends on the way you choose to look at things.

“Your what?” Theo laughs despite himself. _маленький? Where had he heard that before?_ It sounds familiar enough to make him wonder but just enough out of reach it refuses to leave his mind. Boris leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. The blanket around his shoulders threatens to slide off his back and expose him to the freezing air.

“You! ‘My little Potter’ is what it means, My _маленькая птица_! Though you are not so little now,” It’s obvious Boris was lying about the meaning behind his slew of Russian. He’d been called Potter enough times to know it in each of the languages Boris spoke. Unless he had adopted another dialect in their eight years apart, one that sounded astoundingly Slavic, he was lying. Instead of picking apart the details, Theo mimicked Boris’s grin. Although he was weary and, in all honesty, freezing, Theo allowed himself to feel content. Something that had always remained constant was the comfort of Boris’s presence, even with the disaster it always brought. Boris, sporadic and insanely unpredictable as he was, it was refreshing to speak whatever came to mind, no matter how deep things managed to get. It left Theo unable to think of anything other than how much this reminded him of old times. Las Vegas, only instead of sand in his old converse, snow, and slush is creeping into his shoes. 

“Are you calling me fat, _Ублюдок_?” Even though it’s obvious the pronunciation was butchered, Boris barked out in laughter. Conversational Russian might not have taught him jack shit, but Boris certainly did. Even though it was strictly in the cursing category, it was something Theo managed to hold onto, and he couldn’t help himself to test it out once again, just to wipe the smug smirk off of Boris’s face. 

“Fat? Ha!” he rubs at his nose with the back of his hand, shaking his head side to side. “You are practically skeleton, Potter! You need meat on your bones, is not healthy to be so small!" he pokes at Theo's stomach playfully, switching his cigarette over to his right hand before doing so. "If you are fat the world might as well be turned upside down!” Theo bats his hands away, dimples forming on his cheeks as he smiles. Boris falls back dramatically, chair tipping back dubiously as he does so, waving his left hand around him in large sweeping gestures. His right arm hardly moves the thick bandage around his bicep visible, even underneath the layers of his coat.

“I think it already has been,” Theo glances down at his feet, kicking away snow near the tips of his shoes, “the world, I mean.” 

They quickly fall silent again, their cigarettes slowly dwindling between their fingers. This was something Theo missed, without a doubt. Laughing at nothing. Neither of them able to find the strength to care if the other had some morbid contribution and a silence that was not at all painful, awkward, or strained, but a mutual understanding that there is no need for meaningless things to be said, just for the sake of batting away the lull in the conversation.

The sharp smell of chlorine from the nearby pool fills the cold air around them, despite it being frozen over, the smell permanently etched into the area around them. The soft glow from the lobby lights, dulled underneath layers of curtains and distance, are not even close to being strong enough to illuminate anything outside Boris’s silhouette or the sharp curve of his jaw. It was the calmest Theo had felt in a long time, especially while sober. The quiet peace that came with smoking at night was enough to do it. Only small pinpricks of starlight broke through the velvety purple sky.

As Theo leaned back, craning his neck to see past the edge of the open umbrella, he could tell the moon had not changed since those nights years ago. So often had he wished he could stop thinking so much of the past. Of his father. Of Vegas and Xandra, but at the moment they felt inescapable. It was the same moon in the sky now, unchanged since the nights they spent with sand between their toes, stripped down to their boxers as they roughhousing in the pool. All around them empty beer bottles and puddles of spilled vodka somewhere laid a bag of Xandra's Vicodin. The sting of chlorine sharp in Theo’s nose, throat, lungs as Boris shoved him underneath the surface again and again. False anger rising in his chest as he swallowed mouthfuls of water. Enough to punch Boris, hard enough to bruise but with no malice behind it. At that, they would laugh. Laugh as the reek of chlorine and smoke clung to their bodies, as the ground seemed to sway beneath their feet as they stumbled back into the living room, and plopped onto the carpet, soaking wet in front of the tv, the title card of some obscure movie playing on repeat. God how Theo missed _this_. Company. Companionship. _Genuine_ companionship. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe as images of Vegas floated behind his eyelids, that it didn't matter if there were eight years between what had once been and what was now. They felt enough like friends now, even if it did only feel this way until Theo left again. If he had right now, Theo was content. He studied Boris, in the dark knowing that if he was caught staring at his friend (were they still friends?) Boris wouldn’t think twice about it.

“Can I tell you something?” Theo felt seasick and was grateful for the lack of light. Boris would’ve been able to pick apart exactly what he was feeling given if there was more of it, he was sure of it. Instead of questioning him though, Boris only holds out his hands, palms up, and dips his head. A wordless form of communication. _Go ahead_. Theo inhales deeply, his chest tightening and loosening with his lungs. It’s only Boris.

“I don’t think I’ve ever," he falters, " _Felt_ this much. Well-” he steadies himself, grabbing at the blanket with his left hand to ground himself. This was stupid. _Why did he even open his mouth?_ “I don’t think I’ve been this, _happy_ , since Vegas. Yanno?” The statement hangs in the air, growing heavier with each beat of silence. Boris stares down at his lap, unmoving as he rolls his Marlboro between his fingers.

“So long?” Boris finally answers, his breath puffing out into the cold air. Theo can only nod. “Why so long?”

“Trust me, if I knew I’d tell you.” Theo knows that's a lie, but what else can he say? That he hates feeling trapped in a marriage that hasn't even happened yet. Should he mention that he hates how he's responsible for the corner Hobie has been backed into with the selling of his Changelings? Or maybe he should finally admit that he hates how Pippa, although he was sure he had loved her, once, long ago, she was only another Goldfinch. Something he had discovered on that day, the day in which he’d lost his mother. She was only something he had clung to like a lifeline, without any regard if she could sink herself. He wished he could just love Pippa, that would be easier to explain to Kitsey than what he felt now. The truth was, he did not love Pippa, but what she always seemed to represent, his last tie to _Before_ , and how he loved the idea that somehow, someway, Pippa would be able to pull him back into _Before_. At this moment though, the thought of Before scared him, Pippa, his mother, his old apartment in the city all seemed to scare him shitless because a part of him knows, or maybe it's all of him, that he no longer belongs to _Before_ , no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, whether he likes it or not, Theo, Boris, maybe even Pippa (and he's too blind to see it) are all stuck in the infinite space of _After_.

But Theo could say none of these things to Boris. God knew there were more reasons as to why Theo had remained unhappy all these years but they all felt impossible to pinpoint, to explain, and to justify with something as simple as words over a cigarette. All except one, but that hole had remained in his chest ever since he had climbed into that taxi cab eight years back.

“You must know!” Boris reaches forward, clapping Theo on the knee, “Do not pull my leg, Potter. You are smart man, you have to have some idea why!” Boris doesn’t draw his hand away, and he doesn’t make any indication he will when Theo responds, instead gripping it tightly when Theo does speak. 

“I mean I _think_ I know.”

“And you will not tell me,” Boris doesn’t look hurt. Surprisingly he only inches his chair closer to Theo's, their knees now brushing, their bodies completely facing one another. Now, Theo had nowhere to hide. Boris was close enough now he could see his face perfectly, even with the lack of light. Each curl that had fallen out of place, the pinched twist of his eyebrows, his eyes, everything was perfectly visible. That is what scared him most. Especially his eyes. Back when they were kids, Theo was convinced he could see right through him with those eyes, read his every thought. When he’d look back, those slow days in the shop when his mind would wander, always somehow landing on the thought of Boris, it seemed like a childish idea. Now he was near convinced Boris could rifle through every idea rushing through his brain. 

“It is fine if you do not tell me, Potter, do not look so guilty. You are grown man now, not _моя маленькая птица_ anymore.” There’s the nickname again. Damnit if he only could remember what it meant or if he had even heard it before, he wasn’t entirely sure, and while Theo is caught in a moment of grappling for some translation buried in his brain, Boris laughs at his own joke. A joke he knows Theo doesn't understand. Out of frustration, Theo waves a dismissive hand, a trail of cigarette smoke left behind in the breeze. For once, Theo is desperate to keep the conversation going and it seems like it's his turn to do the heavy lifting. 

“Hobie is gonna chew my ass out for this.”

“Hobie? Not your fiancée?” Boris waggles his eyebrows at the word fiancée. Theo returns the jab with the middle finger, slightly amazed at how easily they had fallen back into their usual banter, but then again, not surprised at all. Elongated bits of silence, and of course the overarching theme of adulthood, aside, he was grateful for the familiarity. “Not even her mother? Hobie is the one you live with, yes? Why him?”

“Because he’s always been the one to hold me accountable. In Mrs. Barbour's eyes, I could do no wrong,”

“Mrs. Barbour is your fiancée’s mother?” Upon receiving a nod from Theo to confirm his suspicion about Mrs. Barbour, Boris continues. “That still doesn’t answer my question, what about your bride to be? Hm?” Theo crosses his arms across his chest, leaning back, his knees still brushing against Boris’s as his leg bounces up and down. This wasn’t a subject he really wanted to delve into, but Boris, upon noticing the pinched expression that had come across his face, wasn’t going to let up; he never did.

“I don’t know if she wants me to come back or not,” is the best way he can put it. Boris, on the other hand, looks as if he’s just learned the most interesting, most shocking piece of information in his entire life. And this is the man who had stolen a priceless painting while in high school. No, none of that could compare to the amount of interest Boris apparently has for Theo's personal relationships.

“She would want you to stay in Europe?” Boris leans even further forward, shocked. 

“Not necessarily _Europe_ .” Theo rubs a hand across his face, hints of stubble forming along his jawline. He can’t remember the last time he’s shaved for the life of him. Maybe the night before his engagement party which would be what, nearing two weeks? “It's complicated.” The remark doesn’t seem to fulfill Boris’s questions and didn’t even begin to cover the complexity of the hole Theo consequently dug himself into. With a quirk of Boris’s eyebrow, _So?_ Theo continues, regretfully, but continues nonetheless, “Before I found out she was seeing someone else,”

“Tom Cable!” Boris interrupts, frowning, “Yes, that is right! What a bastard, eh?”

“Yeah, he's a dick,” Theo manages a small chuckle, Boris has always been quick to jump to his defense. “Well, we had talked, she and I, and I’m not quite sure where we stand, especially after that.” Nodding thoughtfully, Boris deems it fit to prod further.

“And you love her?”

“Right now, whether I love her or not doesn’t matter. It would crush everyone if we called it off. Not that I remember most of them, just that they'd be crushed. Mrs. Barbour especially,” Theo sighs, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette and into the snow. Truthfully, Theo had no idea how to feel about the situation, and as far as he was concerned, there was no way out. His fianceé, whom he did not love, was cheating on him with a childhood friend, who he also, did not like. Yet, as far as Theo could tell, they were still going to be getting married this upcoming spring. 

  
  


For a moment, Theo fears they’ve lapsed into another bout of silence, when Boris suddenly asks, harshly, “Why do you care so much about your bride’s mother?”Theo shakes his head, dropping his cigarette onto the ground and crushing it underneath his shoe, watching as Boris carefully mirrors him, but instead of stamping it out under his shoe, Boris flicks the filter over his shoulder. Surprisingly enough, he makes no move to get himself another cigarette like he used to. He could go through a whole pack in a day in Las Vegas if he was bored enough, and if he knew Xandra had more somewhere in the house. Now, he instead laces his hands together and leans forward, resting his head in his hands, completely focused on what Theo has to say. Why he's so interested, Theo couldn’t say.

“She lost her husband a few years back and she was never the same afterward. Grief does weird things to people,” a statement in which Boris hums in response to before allowing Theo to continue, “Then when I ran into Platt-”

“Who is-” Boris goes to interrupt, but Theo knows exactly what he's about to ask, and it’s not as much as seeing the question, just anticipating. Boris always has to know each and every detail and the answer is already out of Theo’s mouth before he realizes Boris hadn’t even finished speaking. 

“My fiancée’s older brother. We went for a drink and he told me everything that had happened.” Theo glanced up, unaware his gaze had shifted from the person in front of him to his absolutely trashed pair of dress shoes. That's what he gets he supposes. Three hundred dollar pair of shoes down the drain, although, it’s not like that matters anymore. He could buy the same pair a hundred times over now and still have enough money left over to not work a day in his life. “Andy, my friend, he died too. Along with his father. Some boating incident. Mrs. Barbour was obviously shaken. Then I came strutting in, all grown up and without having said a word to them in what, ten years? Right after her son and husband died? I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone’s face light up like that,” Theo falters for a moment, “But then I reunited with you and of course you had to go and top that, shouting in the street like a madman,” he shakes his head, the image of Boris smiling, wide and some-what teary-eyed as he rounded on Theo, throwing his arms around his neck without any time left for Theo to actually register what the fuck had just happened. 

“Ha! Reunited,” Boris cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, “Makes us sound like soulmates, no? Universe keeps throwing us at one another. Reuniting us! That is funny,” He claps a hand onto Theo’s shoulder. Shaking his head, Theo offers a tight-lipped smile. Always with some shitty joke or offhand comment with Boris, that much hadn’t changed either. 

"Well, you looked like you had just seen a ghost when you saw me on the street!" Theo breaks out into a full grin at his own remark. 

"Because I had! Thought you had died or something!"

"I'm glad you think so highly of me. Dying before the age of twenty-five." Theo takes a drag from his cigarette. Honestly, he'd never thought he would graduate high school, much less college. To be honest, it was a fair assumption, one he’d made himself many times, and about Boris, on multiple occasions, and yet, no matter how many times the thought about it, how likely it was, someone who is so full of life as Boris is, Theo could never imagine that something as mundane as life could claim Boris victim. 

"I had no way to know! Always assume the worst and there you are, walking into Russian bar asking for Katrina!" Boris laughs, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes, clearly, there was a part of a joke Theo wasn’t getting. Maybe Jerome had set him up, that much was possible, and Katrina did not exist at all. "Your face was just as priceless when I said your name, do not act all high and mighty."

"Potter isn't my name, last time I checked,"

"Ah, but for me? Your name has always been Potter!" Boris gestures to Theo's glasses, same frames since their days in Vegas, new lenses, sure, but for some reason, he couldn’t bear to part with the stupid round hornrimmed glasses. “Either way, you must go back then, yes? To the states.”

“Seems like it.” Boris frowns at the tone of Theo’s sudden change in tone, the way Theo seems to fold back in on himself at the mention of life outside of this moment, of a future past the next minute.

“But do you want to? Go back I mean,"

“I don’t know.”

“Potter,” Boris’s voice is rough as he drags out the nickname, speaking slowly to ensure Theo will not miss anything he has to say, " _Stay_ ,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)  
> (моя) маленькая птица- (My) Little Bird  
> Ублюдок - Bastard


	2. Why Do I Matter?

_ Stay _ . What the fuck did he mean by _stay_. In true Boris fashion, his statement remained completely ambiguous, just like everything done, and said, in their youth. The meaning behind each thing he had said, or done, whispers of  _ Shh, is only me _ , and the near constant grip of his hand on Theo’s waist left unexplained and unacknowledged, and still, he has chosen to continue to uphold his habit of forcing Theo into a guessing game spent trying to figure out what the hell he means. 

“ _ Stay Potter _ , ” Boris states, repeating it as Theo sits, dumbfounded. The thought had never seemed to cross his mind before spelled it out for him, just like many other things in his life.  _ Take the painting, marry Kitsey, work for Hobart and Blackwell _ , each opportunity that has ended up shaping his life, better or for worse, has had to have been spelled out for him.

Ever since Boris had announced they were to leave for Amsterdam at his engagement party, the plan had always been to return. Return to New York, marry Kitsey, and sometime soon, finalize an apartment for the two of them to finally move into together. From there, Theo assumed he would continue his life as an antique salesman, right his wrongs, now seeming easier to do than ever with his considerably larger bank account, and start a life that might as well have been handed to him. Never had he thought of leaving in the manner which he did, and neither did he consider  _ staying _ . What Boris meant by ‘staying’ was confusing in its own right. 

Stay where? In his hotel room in the middle of a country whose language he can’t speak? The past week alone hadn’t been the most pleasurable experience, even if he chose to ignore the added stress of being stuck in a foreign country alone under increasingly complicated circumstances, surrounded by alcohol and other such substances that only seemed to make the situation worse. 'Staying' implied that the rest of his life, or at the very least, the next few weeks, would be spent in a similar manner. Surrounded by a language and culture he could not decipher, and in no way did this seem appealing. Then there was the off chance Boris was suggesting that Theo stay with  _ him _ , and the thought alone made his stomach knot. A life spent inside hotel rooms scattered across the world or traveling across Europe with Boris himself did not matter. All that mattered was what exactly Boris was suggesting. Boris, with his matter-of-fact tone as he repeated his request, “ _ Stay, Potter, please _ ,” intentionally or not, proposed Theo drop everything for him.

Theo stares straight ahead, his eyes never leaving Boris. At the mere mention of leaving everything behind, as he had done before the night he left Vegas, something flutters in his chest. Something he can’t seem to put a finger on, the feeling bordering on hope and excitement. It was a reset button, one he desperately wanted to press, but fear shreds its way through, severing every bit of nerve he had to take that chance and start again. New York, it was his home, but the ghost of his mom touched everything in sight, constant thoughts of what’d he’d do if he happened to pass her on the street, what she’d say to him. Theo, destined to be trapped in a limbo between  _ Before  _ and  _ After  _ as long as he continued living as he was, stuck in New York, not the city itself, but simply, the idea it had been painted as in his mind. 

“You know I can’t do that.” Theo shakes his head, trying to hide his surprise at the mournful tone his voice took. It was simply a statement of fact. There was no way Theo could stay, or leave, or however things were phrased. He had to go back to New York, and as much as he didn’t want to, had to play his part in the lives of those around him. Shrug on his three-piece suits and continue on as the Theo Hobie had raised, the Theo Kitsey did not love, and the Theo Mrs. Barbour needed. Theo was going to leave Amsterdam, with or without Boris, who could only sit with the cold metal seeping through his pants and bicep throbbing in pain, wondering, how many times would Theo insist on leaving him. How many times would he find himself begging Theo to stay. One more day, one more week.  _ Theo,  _ Potter _ , please. _

“And why not? Why can’t you stay,” Boris cocks his head curiously, hair flopping to one side trying to swallow the lump rising in his throat. Boris had known Theo’s answer before he even opened his mouth, so why, upon hearing his answer, did it feel as if time had stopped. Only the soft ticking of Theo’s watch alluded to the fact that time wore on, and, by consequence, was running out.

“Why?” Theo shakes his head, he  _ must  _ be joking, hell he even expects,  _ hopes _ for Boris to burst out in his uproarious laughter. He practically begs, inside his own mind, for Boris to mutter something about how Theo is so gullible. All of that hope deflates in a blink of the eye as Boris purses his lips into a hard line, looking as serious as he had when discussing the philosophies of  _ The Idiot _ , a book which Theo himself had read and reread over the years. During Boris's ramblings surrounding the text, the two of them, only slightly inebriated, was the only time Boris had ever been truly serious in his youth. Then and the night Theo had left. The only time the mischievous glint in his eyes disappeared replaced by something entirely unreadable. Until now. The look was back. Boris sat with eyes fixated on every aspect of Theo. His posture, the slight purse of his lips, and the creases formed between his brows. There’s a steely sort of defiance in the statement.  _ Why, Potter, why can’t you stay? _ Theo only wishes he had a better answer.

“I have a good life in New York! I have-” He stutters, gesturing broadly around him, unable to find the words that would make his reasons sound a little more profound than they actually are. But, when his words fail him, the first twinges of panic begin twisting at his stomach for the umpteenth time that week, “-I have a great job! I mean it pays well. I  _ enjoy _ my job,” A shitty reason in itself. Something as insignificant as a job would do little to deter Boris’s attempts to keep Theo in Amsterdam, next to nothing. Boris raises his eyebrows as if on cue, asking  _ Really? Is that all? _ With a challenging sort of shrug of his shoulder, the one left uninjured. Theo narrows his eyes, about to add a snide remark of earning his money legally, but the fraudulent Changelings floating around that he had passed off as originals flash across his mind. 

“Boris, I'm about to get married!” He twists at the ring on his right hand, Mister Barbour’s old wedding band. He’d worn it since Kitsey announced their engagement to the remaining Barbours. Mrs. Barbour had the heavy gold band to him that same night, hushed and quiet, a secret from Toddy and Platt. She had insisted Theo and Kitsey purchase their own wedding bands but also urged Theo to keep the late Mr. Barbour’s ring. “Think of it as his blessing,” she had said to him, dropping the heavy gold band into his palm, curling his fingers over it before smiling as if nothing happened, and drifting out of the room, congratulating Kitsey once more. 

“You have mentioned before, yes.” Boris sounds almost bored at Theo’s scramble to justify his determination to return home to New York. And though Theo knows it should not be as hard as it is to find reasons as to why his mind is completely blank. He might as well be asleep, his night terrors more capable of coming up with a reply than he is.

“I’m not about to ditch everything I have worked for these past eight years just because you asked me to! Boris, we aren’t the same people we used to be.” Boris’s face hardens, decidedly keeping his mouth shut. “I can’t just throw all of that shit away. Only a fucking idiot would do that.” Huffing, Theo falls back into his chair, quickly snatching up and lighting a second cigarette, resigning himself that he may as well smoke the rest of the pack tonight in order to get through this grueling conversation. 

“But what if you are an idiot,” Boris cuts in, and Theo’s face turns sour. 

“ _ What? _ ” Theo’s voice drops to a whisper. Boris only shrugs in response, leaning backwards slumping in his chair. “And the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Theo asks, voice sharp, and if it wasn’t there before, which it certainly was, there’s a bite to his words. Boris seems pleased with himself at the remark and the reaction it had elicited from Theo, a small smile replacing his previously forlorn expression. If Boris had not gotten to know each and every one of Theo’s moods, and there were many, it would be impossible to decipher exactly what was going through his mind. Someone might easily mistake Theo for being amused, and others for him being upset. Boris knew Theo was equal parts confused as he was pissed off.

“What if you were an idiot!” Boris grins as throws his arms into the air, swallowing a wince from the jab of pain in his right bicep. Upon Theo’s expression only darkening, he continues with the justification of word choice, never was a language barrier an issue, broad hand gestures making up for the gaps, but now he squints down at the ground. “What if you did, just, ‘Throw it all away!’ like an idiot would?” Boris waits for a response, the silence around them pressing on his ears as Theo’s cigarette disintegrates in his hand. Trying to articulate some sort of reply Theo’s mouth opens and closes like a fish on dry land. Trying, and struggling, to convey whatever the fuck he felt. Clearly, it was an odd suggestion. Choosing the path of an idiot, something Theo seemed to actively avoid in his adulthood. 

“What are you trying to say?” Theo takes a sharp inhale from his cigarette in order to busy himself. Boris only shrugs, an overexaggerated gesture as he tosses his arms up, tilts his head back, and puckers his lips. Theo retaliates against the dramatics by swiftly kicking his leg out and connecting it with Boris’s shin, hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to make Boris do much more than toss him a dirty look. Another one of their non-verbal forms of communication.  _ Shut the fuck up and get on with it. _

Boris settles back into his previous icy state, his eyes going cold and sitting up in his chair. He tucks his hands into his coat pockets and stares upwards. His eyes presumably searching for the moon, as they always had. However, Theo can see his eyes are unfocused. A seriousness settled over him, something that was painfully adult-like. 

A change in tone was something Theo had come to expect from Boris. His moods were always shifting faster than he could identify them, but, it wasn't the meaning behind the moods that mattered, it was whatever Boris was going to say next. Sometimes, when in a cheery disposition Theo would be on the edge of the seat waiting for whatever kind of adventure Boris would think up. On the opposite end of Boris's moods, whenever he fell quiet, suddenly broody, Theo would wait patiently, never wanting to miss a beat in conversation, careful to not say the wrong thing. With anybody else, a quick change in attitude similar to Boris's changes would be enough to give Theo whiplash. But Boris’s unpredictability had become predictable in itself, leaving Theo ready for whatever Boris had to dish out. Now though, he was nervous.

“You, Theo,” his voice is soft like he was speaking to a child, putting extra stress onto Theo’s name. He hadn’t improved upon his pronunciation at all, Theo’s name came out sounding more like  _ Te-oh _ . “You are not happy-” and before Theo can interject Boris continues on, raising his voice only slightly to talk over him, “You said so yourself. But, this is where we differ. I think the idiot would be one to stay unhappy. Takes a genius to give everything up,”

“Boris,” Theo breathes, his voice equally as quiet, “You can’t be suggesting I uproot  _ everyone’s _ lives just because I’m unhappy.” He knows this better than anyone. He had been on the receiving end of the exact situation. His own father had left, solely because he was unhappy, more or less. Of course, Theo’s life was never exactly  _ uprooted  _ by his father's leave, something closer to inconvenienced. The only time "uprooted" would fit would be the day his dad arrived at the Barbour's, whisking him away to Las Vegas. Even with his father gone, Theo and his mother and fared well enough on their own. Hell, they even benefitted from his absence on the most surface level. Though his situation was nothing similar to his father's, not in a way he cared to admit, desertion of his New York life would bring nothing but problems, to himself and those close to him.

“Is exactly what I am suggesting,” Boris tears his head away from the sky, looking back over to Theo. Leaning to his side, he rests his left arm on the table next to them, sagging sideways as if this conversation was beginning to take a physical toll. The only sense of reality since Boris's entrance washes over Theo. A cleaning lady. She shuffles past the glass patio doors, obstructing the warm yellow light that ebbs into the pool’s surrounding area for a moment. The lack of light casting Boris’s face in shadow. When the light is unobstructed once more, the shadows seem to cling onto Boris’s face. It takes Theo a moment to realize they're minute hints of exhaustion, not the shadows clawing at his skin. Exhaustion is clearly something that he is not used to anymore. Sleepless nights were so common in their teens, and now? Theo wasn't so sure, on Boris’s end at least. There were shadows under his eyes, in the hallows of his cheeks, along his jawline. Theo feels a pang in his chest. It's as if they had stayed the same all these years. The same deep purple bruising under his eyes as they spent their nights getting wasted and warding off nightmares.  _ Stay Potter, for me. _

“That’s insane, Boris, there is no way-” His voice is hoarse. Unexpectedly so. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, horrifyingly familiar. 

“You are not happy! It is not something to argue. It is fact,” Boris interrupts, sighing as he pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture that seems too mature for Boris. Even as an adult, doing whatever he does for his money, he still has the air of immaturity about him. The unmistakable glint in his eyes, the carefree shrug of his shoulders all down to the way he carries himself. Sure, he’d be an intimidating guy to run into on the street, heavy accent with the unmistakable Slavic twinge, his dark hair and the intensity of his eyes against his pale skin, and yet, Theo still can’t manage to see past the gangly limbed fifteen-year-old.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Theo feels himself growing impatient. His trip downstairs from his room, which he had finally allowed room service into after a week of living in his own filth, was meant to be brief. A quick smoke outside. Upon entering the outdoor pool area, he had only sat down to keep warm, he didn't expect Boris to show up for 'a chat.’

“What is point of going back if you are not happy? Life,” Boris looks around him before leaning closer to Theo, slapping a hand onto his once again knee, “Life is nothing without happiness, Potter.” He pauses, glancing at the cigarette trapped between Theo’s fingers, watching as it shakes slightly with his hands. If he had been anyone else they would write Theo’s shaking as a result of being in the cold but Boris knew he was nearing the edge of something dangerous. Dangerous for the both of them. Theo was scared.  _ They _ were scared.

“Boris,” There’s a rasp in Theo’s voice again, cutting through the silence around them. An uncertainty pressing in on the pair of them as he speaks as if Theo himself isn’t sure that what he’s saying is true either. “Boris I’m perfectly happy in New York, as happy as I can be with all the shit that’s happened-” And unable to resist, Boris cuts him off with a squeeze of his hand on Theo’s thigh.

“You said so yourself, minutes ago,” He waves his hand dismissively before plucking the cigarette from between Theo’s fingers, slightly annoyed with its constant jittering. He taps the ash off into the snow at their feet before slipping it back in between Theo’s pointer and middle finger. “You,” he points sharply at Theo, removing his hand from his knee, “Told me you had not been this happy since Vegas. Yet two days ago you very nearly overdosed.”  _ There it was.  _

All of the cards had been thrown on the table. The pure bluntness of it made Theo’s skin crawl. Overdose didn’t seem right. He had been desperate, yes, trapped alone in a hotel room for days without a clue of what happened to Boris, or The Goldfinch or what would happen to himself. He had swallowed what pills he had left, chasing it with whatever cheap vodka and other alcohols that the hotel had. Overdosing had not been his intention. Neither did he intend for Boris to burst into his hotel room and proceed to drag him through the snow in order to sober him up. Only to be tugged inside some ragtag diner in Amsterdam, as Boris dumped the whereabouts of The Goldfinch and his last days adventures on a still drugged Theo. Even so, it didn't matter if it had been his intention to overdose or not. He still swallowed the pills.

“I thought you had died or something Boris.” Theo was shocked at the gentleness of his own tone. Boris, in complete honesty, expected Theo to blow up, stand from his chair and toss his cigarette to the ground, huffing as he stomped away with his hotel blanket.  _ That  _ was something Boris could handle, but the softening of Theo’s eyes and the resigned sigh made him all the more anxious. Boris was trapped just as much as Theo. _ No more secrets _ . 

“I had no way of getting home, no contact with you,” he takes a steadying breath, one hand gripping the blanket tighter and the other nervously tapping at his cigarette, “I mean, fuck, I couldn’t talk to anybody for that matter. I was stuck inside a hotel room for a  _ week _ .” Boris reaches across the space between them once again, removing the cigarette from Theo and pressing it to his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. Theo rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“So you try to kill yourself then? If I had known I promise you I would not have left you.” Boris’s throat constricts around the words. If he had been one minute too late Theo would be laying in some hospital either surrounded with medical wires, IV bags, and drugs,  _ not the fun kind _ , he notes, or in some reality, one that made Boris’s chest ache painfully, he’d be underneath the hospital in a body bag waiting for someone to confirm his corpse. It would happen one day, that felt was certain, but if it had happened, had Gyuri stopped at one more red light, it would’ve been his fault.

“Boris,” Theo grips at his upper arm after a moment’s hesitation spent carefully judging which arm had been victim to a gunshot wound before he dips his head forward to meet Boris eye to eye. Boris’s head sags under the guilt, his eyes rimmed red, the dark circles under his eyes such a deep purple that they look closer to bruises than shadows, “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine now.” 

Boris slowly looks up at Theo, mouth agape, his hands shakily rolling Theo’s cigarette between his fingers, “Does not matter?” Long spindly fingers grab at the edge of the table, his knuckles a deathly white, “So your death no longer matters, simple as that, isn’t it.” he pauses, assessing Theo’s expression carefully. Boris throws himself back into his chair, creating an arms-length of space between them, miming dusting his hands off and relaxing is his seat. “Easy as that! Does not matter! Tell me, why are things only simple when you wish to explain them away,” Boris shrugs off Theo’s attempt to place a hand on his shoulder, slumping in his chair, narrowing his eyes. Theo sheds the gentle tone, his lips pursed as he too, leans back.

“You know I didn’t mean to.” 

“You overdosed anyway. Does not matter your intentions. Only the outcome,” Boris rubs at his eyes with his palm in order to relieve the tension twisting at his features. Clearly, the overdose had shaken Boris, as it would shake anybody. But Theo was fine now, there was no need to worry. Focusing on it would only make matters worse, both for the anxiety already gurgling in his stomach at the very mention of it, and Boris’s reaction to it now.

“Why the fuck does it even matter if I overdosed or not,” Theo snaps, his voice rough and loud, slicing through the silence so suddenly Boris’s eyes widen in shock as hot-tempered and angry Theo had been, never had he been the one to shout first, maybe back in Vegas it was the fear of being too much like his father, but now, everything was in the open. There was nowhere to hide anymore, and with the good that offered, now came the ugly.

“I haven’t seen you for eight years, Boris.  _ Eight years _ ! Yet you expect us to act like nothing has changed. Like we’re both fucking teenagers again with only one another!” He jerks his hand out sharply, rising from his seat to tower over Boris, prodding his index finger painfully into Boris’s chest with each syllable. “I don’t even know who you are anymore, so why the  _ fuck _ does it matter.” Boris quickly swallows his surprise, his features hardening into unfriendly conviction. His entire body goes rigid moments before shooting up from his seat. Now, he's unable to meet Theo eye to eye, just a hair shorter than him. _ How had he grown to be so tall? _ Boris wonders fleetingly before the sound of his chair tipping over into the snow, crashing to the ground with a soft thump from his sudden burst of motion, brings him back.

“Why does it matter?” And just as he had with his surprise, he tries to choke down the emotions threatening to overtake his words. His hands begin to shake just as Theo’s had shaken earlier, his sight beginning to blur in-between blinks. Tipping his head to the sky Boris tries to chase away the tears, but the stars above him warp with each blink of his eyelids. “ _ Иисус, поиметь! _ Maybe you are an idiot,”

“Then tell me why it matters, Boris.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)  
> Иисус, поиметь - Jesus, Fuck


	3. The Illusion Of Choice

“Theo,” Boris presses the tips of his fingers together, the fresh layer of snow crunching under his feet as takes a step closer, closing the distance Theo created when he started off towards the hotel door leading back into the lobby. His voice was unmistakably stern, a serious tone so foreign to Theo is revealed to be laced with something slightly more recognizable to Theo as Boris speaks. A tone Theo had heard before, a way of speaking he never wanted to hear from Boris ever again. It was the same voice he used once he managed to get Theo walking on his own. An exact echo Theo heard when collapsing onto the bed in his hotel room. Or, if he thought hard enough, shifting through substance-meddled memories, he heard it before, the same panicked and pleading voice as Theo laid in the middle of the road in Vegas, drunk out of his mind wishing for nothing but a car to come barreling down the darkened road. Despite that, never had he sounded quite like this. 

“You may not believe me-” His voice cracks as he speaks, hardly enough for it to be noticeable, but they’re enough to make guilt twist in Theo’s gut like a dagger. Despite the shake of his voice, Boris, fearless, brave Boris, forces the words out. Words Theo could never imagine himself saying. “I  _ need _ you. Need you like the sun. What do you not understand? What have I done to not make this clear.” His voice is soft. Gentle, fearing that if he so much as raised his voice, Theo would leave all over again, ducking into a taxi and driving off into the night. Truthfully, Theo wishes it was an option to leave once again, but Boris had closed in on him.

God does Theo just wish he would just yell. Scream, shout.  _ Something _ . The delicate lilt to his words made Theo feel sick. Yelling was easier. Screaming was easier. If Boris yelled he could just brush this all off by the time his head hit the hotel bed’s pillow tonight. When people shouted they said things they either didn’t mean at all or meant with their whole heart with no way to tell the difference after the split second in which the words were spoken. The certainty of Boris’s tone is what scared him, as well as the delicacy. The finality of it all, as if this was an inevitable confession. Certainty is what Theo couldn’t live with.

“Boris,” Theo pushes, desperate to get a rise, to anger him. Anything except this. Anything to avoid facing what Boris really has tried to say all these years. Theo knows it, he can feel the truth clawing its way at his own mind, pushing past the lump in his throat. He wants to scream too, to yell, thrash about instead of just stand dumbly and watch, wide eyes in the darkness as Boris unravels himself before Theo in the middle of a hotel pool deck. 

Boris. Strong, independent, repulsively thoughtless at times, too thoughtful at others. Boris, the kind of person who needs no one but himself, constantly refusing to divulge his feelings, was crumbling before him. The kid whom he has grown up beside was fading, or the facade he had built was. Theo was too afraid to find out which was the answer.  _ Only the present, Potter. Past is past and is better left that way  _ muttered into his ear on humid nights in the desert, the asphalt hot under his skin and the moon reduced to a shimmering blot of white in the sky above, tears and snot choking the air out of Theo.

“Boris shut the fuck up you don’t mean-” Theo attempts, desperate to interject, but Boris continues in his same even tone, refusing to let his own emotions get the better of him at the very moment, his tone scarily even, his eyes stern and focused as he stood across from Theo, hands dangling at his sides as he spoke.

“I need you. Need you just as much as you have needed me. In different ways? Yes, of course! Yet the concept is same. You somehow, you kept me sane, kept me  _ happy _ ! Truly, very happy. Always with you, I was happy.” Now, more than ever Theo just wanted Boris to punch him, call him an idiot or  _ идиот  _ and tell him to never scare him like that again and turn every part of this conversation back on the fact he had overdosed less than seventy-two hours ago, but at the rate in which Boris was going, they were heading for something dangerous, on the verge of falling headfirst Theo would never be ready for. Then there was the other part of Theo, the one he was constantly afraid to name that yearned for Boris to pull him close. It was embarrassing, but he stood longing to be touched in a way he hadn’t been touched in eight years, and yet they stand opposite like one another. The fleeting thought of if he had just  _ one _ more pill those seventy-something hours ago, he’d be gone. It would be easier if that’s how things turned out, and Theo would rather be lying six feet under, drifting through oblivion, than face Boris like this. Eyes shiny and glassed over, red rims forming and the ever-present truth of it all, the truth of what Boris is implying, hell, about to  _ admit _ . And then there’s the truth of this being  all his fault .

Before he can think, anger bubbling in his stomach, Theo shoves Boris. Not hard enough to cause any damage whatsoever, his hands purposely avoiding his injured arm and hitting him square in the chest. Stumbling back, Boris’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Fuck you Boris,” is all Theo has to say before he turns on his heel, the blanket dragging in the snow behind him, and storms off towards the glass double doors. His breath puffing thick white clouds into the inky blackness of the sky stretched above him as he throws the remnants of his cigarette aside.

“I thought I had lost you in that  _ бля _ hotel room!” Boris shouts after him. Theo releases a breath.  _ Finally _ , the only word on his mind as the words echo around them.  _ That _ , Theo decides,  _ is the truth _ . “Bloody shirt! Room absolutely trashed! Vomit on the floor! All alcohol gone!” Theo grimaces at the word 'gone' and how Boris sounds more broken that Theo has truly allowed himself to feel like his solutions lied at the bottom of a liquor bottle than speak to him, leaving him knowing that there was, there  _ is  _ so much more to be said. “Theo, listen to me, that is no place, no  _ way _ , for someone like  _ you _ to die!” Theo opts to overlook what Boris means by ‘somebody like him’ and pushes forward, the faster the band-aid is ripped off, the better.

“I didn’t mean to-” Theo begins, spinning around, quickly interrupted by Boris’s near-instantaneous rebuttal.

“Bullshit!” 

“Let me fucking finish,” Theo signs. Truly he didn’t mean to overdose, not entirely. However, there was no way to half-overdose on painkillers and the hotel minibar’s supply of shitty wine and vodka. “I didn’t mean for you to find me like that.”

“How did you expect me to find you? Huh? Wanted me to find you dead? Is that it?” Boris spits the words out bitterly Theo can almost see the weight of them dropping into the snow the second they leave Boris’s mouth. Theo can see the hurt swimming behind his eyes even from ten feet away.  _ I caused this _ , Theo thinks suddenly.

“I didn’t expect you to find me at all!” Theo feels relief at raising his voice. Relief of finally getting something off of his chest without having to say anything meaningful at all. The volume of the words holding more weight than the words themselves. “Boris, I thought you were dead, killed off by someone or another! I had no way of knowing you were okay!”

“And I did! Thought you would be fine, be  _ safe, _ in hotel room for a few days, a few  _ days _ and you try to kill yourself!” Silence is all Boris gets as a response. Theo’s left standing in the middle of a snowy courtyard feeling like a piece of shit, a sense of responsibility rooting Theo in place and a whirlwind of other things telling him to get the ever-loving  _ fuck _ out of dodge, but Boris, at the center of it all, shrugs off the last bit of composure he has left. The light from the hotel lobby, warm and forgiving, illuminates the tracks the tears sliding down his cheeks leave behind. He doesn’t move to wipe them away. “What if I hadn’t found you.” It's a demand for an answer more than a genuine question.

“I don’t know.”

“You would be dead, Theo,” Boris mutters his name again, a stab at Theo’s chest, the twisting of a dagger already embedded in the skin.

“Most likely,” is all he manages.

“No, you would be one hundred percent dead, in a body bag back to United States after overdosing on painkillers and alcohol.” His voice is level once again. Deathly so. Every single word is indisputable, emotionless. Factual. The goddamned truth, staring Theo right in the face. “If you ever  _ are  _ to leave. Mrs. Barbour, or Hobie, or your fiancée, even me, do it in life,” He plops down in Theo’s vacant chair, burying his head in his hands, and for a few painstaking seconds, Theo is cemented to the spot, helpless as he watches Boris’s shoulder shake. When he sits up again, his hands come away wet and shiny in the moonlight.

"Boris I get it, you don't have to-" Guilt swallows Theo whole when Boris sits upright again. 

“If you are ever to leave us, me, them, whoever. Leave in a way we all know you made final say yourself. In death,” Theo wipes absently at his eyes, surprised to find the corner of the blanket he used wet.  _ Had he been crying? How long? _ “You have the illusion of choice. In life, it is not illusion but the whole truth. If you live and you leave, you do so for your own good. Maybe in life, they will be able to forgive and understand, and meet again when you are happier.” Theo takes a tentative step closer, just enough so Boris doesn’t have to project his voice for the whole hotel to hear. “Death, there is no forgiveness, no choice. Only empty and scraped out like a shell. An ugly fucking shell of who you were. Like,” he waves his hand around, settling to wipe it off on his pants upon noticing the moisture collected on them, “Like a bad dream.” He stares down at his hands, picking at his fingernails, refusing to look up, chest heaving. “Two days ago, I thought that I would have had to make peace with your death. Your death, as much my fault as it would have been yours.” He pinches his eyes shut, pretending to ignore the soft crunch of snow as Theo inches closer, hovering next to his chair. “Death, everyone blames themselves, you know that more than anybody. And you,” He glances at Theo, eyebrows furrowed and accusing, “You tried to inflict that on all those who care about you. Every. Single. One. Please, Potter. Theo.  _ моя любовь. мой щегол. _ Do not resign others to a fate as painful as your own.”

With a sigh, Theo pulls Boris’s overturned chair back up and falls into it. His entire body feels drained and weak, tears stinging his eyes and whirlwinds of emotions stirring his already upset stomach. A deadly concoction of guilt, remorse, longing, responsibility, and shame choking him to the point where he feels like he’s been smothered in dust and debris. 

"So I ask why. Want to hear it from you,”

“Why what?”

“Why even try to overdose?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)  
> идиот - idiot  
> бля - fucking  
> моя любовь - my love  
> мой щегол - my goldfinch
> 
> Additional Notes:  
> This was originally meant to be just a one chapter conversation between Boris and Theo after Antwerp and I don't know how I'm still dragging this out BUT we're almost through all the angst so buckle up kids and get ready because I cannot restrain myself from a happy ending.


	4. Happiness v. Euphoria

Theo’s mouth goes dry at the question, his hands already itching for another cigarette to calm his nerves, regret flooding his senses as he thinks back to the nearly brand-new cigarette he had cast aside in a fleeting moment of rage. Thankfully he has enough mind to stop himself before his fingers can close around the pack that still sits on the patio table next to him. 

Inhaling sharply, cold air burning the inside of his nose throat as he tries his best to gather himself. Truthfully, Theo didn’t have an answer. The best he could offer was a half-assed shrug, some slurred mumblings about the stress, how overdosing wasn’t his  _ intention _ , but it would all be lost on Boris. Someone who moved swiftly through life, seemingly without rhyme or reason, was one to talk. If by some means their roles had been reversed, Boris would shrug, nonchalant, saying accidents are accidents and mutter something or other about he was sorry for scaring Theo before diverting the conversation towards some other topic. To Theo’s dismay, he did not have Boris’s sense of carelessness, his ability to walk through life without remorse, and felt his stomach begin to drop from underneath him. And Boris did not possess Theo’s willingness to let things like overdosing slip by. 

“You were unhappy,” Boris repeats again. A statement Theo wrinkles his nose at, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.  _ Happiness _ . That’s all it seemed to come down to and the word had begun to lose meaning thanks to Boris’s adamant repetition as if continuing to use the word would somehow allow Theo's head to grasp a hold of the concept by consequence, the feeling itself.

_ Happiness. _

“That’s such a stupid fucking-” Theo crosses his arms over his chest, sighing before he can finish his sentence, hands curling into fists. The word ‘unhappy’ felt so watered down in comparison to what Theo had felt.  _ Unhappiness, sadness, anger, fear.  _ Is that all it was?

“Is not 'stupid fucking question-’ ” Boris cuts in during Theo’s pause, finishing his sentence for him, “Is important.” He crosses his arms as well, mirroring Theo. His legs crossed at his ankles, leaning forward once again, eyes boring into Theo. “You said, last time you were happy was in Vegas.” Boris uncrosses his arms in favor of pressing his fingers together, almost professional in manner. “Why Vegas.”

That’s a question Theo knows the answer to, wishing it didn’t seem so obvious. Praying it wasn't as obvious to Boris as it felt to Theo. It was always Boris. It was as true as the sky being blue or the world being round. The thoughtless whirlwind of ratty black hair, the salty smell of sweat and cigarette smoke.  _ Their  _ room filled with piles of chlorine stained clothes and empty bottles. Boris and his infinite amount of faults that made him so appallingly human, so real, that he seemed to pull Theo from his grief-muddled existence with just the quirk of an eyebrow and the twist of his lips. All the way down to how Boris carried himself, unashamed and confident, it could make anybody envious. His sharp barks of laughter that were so terribly infectious you couldn’t help but smile at the sound. An arm slung across Theo’s shoulders, casually grabbing Theo’s hand in his as they ran from security guards on the strip, curling around Theo in his sleep, nose pressed into the back of his neck, hot puffs of breath sending shivers down his spine. 

_ Shh Potter, is only me.  _

It was Boris. Boris and his way of living each day, full throttle and reckless. Leaning across the kitchen counter to plant a playful, drunken kiss on Theo’s cheek even though they both knew Larry was just on the other side of the room, yelling at the television from his recliner. Boris was  _ alive _ . Boris, simply, was so painfully full of life it made Theo’s chest ache. In Vegas, Boris seemed to be life itself. Boris and his stolen cigarettes and drugs clogging each of his senses as he laughed, nose pressed to Theo’s as they rolled on Ecstacy. Theo, who felt as close to a corpse that a person could, felt like a live wire around Boris. Every one of his emotions dragged to the surface. His grief, his pain, his sadness, his fear, his anger, all brought out by Boris. Because Boris was life. Life is, and will always be, pain, and anger, sadness, and fear, but with Boris, it felt almost as if all of that would be worth it in the end. Almost that Boris would be the one to tip the scales, balance the bad with the good. Before Boris, in Theo’s life, everything lost its edge, dull and colorless, nothing to grab onto as he slipped down into his misery. Boris, he was what brought life back into focus, edges sharp and jagged, painful to grab onto but allowing Theo to pull himself, piece by piece, from his own anguish. Even without the gentle coaxing of drugs or alcohol, Theo allowed himself to feel again. The good, the bad, and mostly the ugly, the two of them ready to claw their way to the other side with one another.

No, he had not been  _ happy  _ in Vegas, but he had  _ felt _ , and that was certainly more than what he could say for his current situation. How easy it had been to slip back into his days of soft edges and drug-filled hazes, all without Boris to keep him from fading away.

“I don’t know.” Is all Theo musters, his nails digging half-moon shapes into his palm as he tries to fight back the lump in his throat and the burn in his eyes. The weight of his real answer settling in the pit of his stomach, right on the tip of his tongue. Boris’s eyes widened briefly, eyes flicking across Theo’s face before settling on his hands in his lap, trying to hide whatever emotion that briefly flashed across his face. Boris still knew Theo enough to not expect a straight answer, but for a moment his surprise had betrayed him. 

“You don’t know,” Boris repeats. Theo wishes he could read his expression but Boris sits straight-faced, determined to keep it blank. Part of him fearing if he were to let his guard down, if Theo were to see the problem underneath, he would fly away again. 

“I don’t know,” Theo confirms, tightlipped and his chest tight. 

“Potter, I know you were not ‘happy’ in Vegas,” he says, placing air quotes around the word happy. “You thought you were, but you tried to die then too.” Boris splays his fingers out across his lap, laying out his metaphorical cards. So far none of this was news to Theo, but hearing the words out of Boris’s mouth was jarring.  _ Was it that obvious? _ Even after all these years, Boris could still read him like an open book. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t keep himself from swallowing shallow gulps of cold air in an attempt to keep his head as clear as he could. In truth, everything felt muddled, like he was trying to read his own mind through a glass of muddy water. 

“Boris-”

“Shut up,” Boris snaps, Theo’s eyes widening. Boris squeezes his eyes shut, resting his head in his hands. “Let me explain, and for once, listen.  _ пожалуйста _ ,” He finishes, tone softer but the edge still present, serious, and it sends a shockwave of nerves through Theo’s stomach. 

“Might have  _ thought _ you were happy in Vegas, yes? But let me tell you, you were not. Listen to me now Theo,” the name sounds foreign in his mouth, the word sounding something entirely different than his true name coming from his mouth.  _ Te-oh _ . “You were not happy, that is fact, no matter how much you try to convince yourself opposite, you were not  _ happy _ . You might have felt,” he snaps his fingers, trying to remember some synonym, a grand word to describe some watered-down feeling. “Euphoric!” Boris gasps, slapping a hand to his forehead. “Such a stupid word it is, sounding all grand and shit. Euphoric, yes, but that comes from drugs. Drugs and alcohol, bouncing between euphoric and numb without buffer. One extreme to other. That.” Boris takes a breath, his hand opening and closing in his hand against his own thigh, wanting to reach out to Theo but fearing the implications. “That is not happiness. Without the drugs, you were hollow, depressed. Drugs are what made you happy in Vegas. Happy because either way, if they killed you or ended up high, you would be content.” Theo so desperately wants to point out the opposite, the words almost on the tip of his tongue, painfully close to shouting.  _ No Boris, it was you, idiot, you were what made me feel something _ . It wasn’t happiness, that part Boris had gotten correct, but feeling like he had in Nevada was the closest Theo had gotten since the death of his mother. 

Theo blinked. His face felt hot, the blanket too heavy and his chest twisting painfully as he tried to hold his bullshit poker face for any longer. “Emotion was lost on you so long ago. Little bits here and there but drugs felt close enough to happy you did not care to tell difference.” He narrows his eyes, all dark circles, deep shadows, and sharp edges. “Happiness is such a stupid fucking word. Simple. Naïve, yes? All we want is happy! Handed to us on silver platter without any work!” He shakes his head, a weak smile touching his lips, “You Potter, cannot be happy. You keep yourself from it. You will die from that one of these days, I know it.” Boris taps at his temple with his pointer finger, his smile faltering, changing into something much worse, giving in to something filled with sadness and false humor. 

Theo digs his nails deeper into his palms trying to let the pain bring his eyes back into focus. He bows his head, staring unfocused at the snow-covered ground between his feet, refusing to meet Boris’s eyes. Theo could feel something weighty between them. Years spent ignoring the grave they had been digging themselves. A grave filled with stolen cigarettes and nights spent blacked out by the pool only to vomit it all up the next day, alcohol poisoning more common than food in the fridge. Boris and Theo. Always the two of them. Always carefully tip-toeing around the subject. A bond neither could put a name to. A bond with nights spent with Boris keeping the dull loneliness in Theo at bay with the cautious brush of a thumb against a cheek. Days with Theo nudging Boris, trying to brighten his darkened mood with bad jokes and stories from New York that weren't too painful to remember. Words that neither of them dared speak. A joke that often went too far in Boris’s drunken mind that landed him with a bruised jaw, and Theo near catatonic in the middle of the road for close to two hours, pupils dominating his eyes and a bottle in hand, spilled beer trickling through the cracks in the pavement. Much to Theo’s dismay, now was the time one of them, Boris of course, just as he had expected, finally decided to step over the line. Face the truth head-on with such a gentle determination it made Theo want to burst. 

“If I had not found you when I did-” He sighs, his chest seeming to cave inward on itself Theo feeling like he was being crushed under the rubble. So much time he had spent avoiding this and no matter what he did there was no way to escape. If he stood up now, he might as well empty the confused tangle of his feelings into the air between them, if he could find a way to get the words out. “You need to allow yourself to try and find happiness outside of euphoria. Is that why you must stay, New York? You think New York is where you are happy, right?” Theo raises his head to see Boris wearing a look similar to what Theo saw in the diner. Only this time, there were no other people around them. No waitresses eyeing them as Theo pushed aside his plate, no prying eyes or remnants of drugs in his system. It was purely Boris. Unguarded and open and it scared Theo to death. “If I am lucky you are undecided, but if you stay in New York,” he shakes his head so that the deathly blue glow from the pool and the warm yellow glow of the hotel lights illuminate opposite sides of his face. “You want to stay in city that lives and breathes memories of what you once had if you choose to stay unhappy? You will die, Theo. You will.” there's a prominent break in his voice, words dropping to a rasp, “I do not want to feel like that ever again. Please, Theo.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)  
> Пожалуйста - Please
> 
> Additional Notes:  
> Sorry it took me so long to add another update so I tried to kinda use this chapter to really drive things forward and have Theo and Boris figure their shit out. Honestly, I didn't expect this to go on as long as it has! A 2,000-word prompt is now a 10,000+ word fic. I'm going to try and wrap this up soon but I do not by any means wanna rush this. I want to make sure I have characterization down and all that jazz. Anyways, thank you so much for reading and all the comments, I just don't know how to respond y'all are so amazing!


	5. Drowning to Feel Whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello! So basically, this is the second to last official chapter (sorry it's so short I don't want to drag things on just for the sake of having a higher wordcount)! I've been stuck on how to really close this project off in a meaningful way that was satisfying and felt true to the characters so it took me forever to get this chapter out, and for that, I do apologize! But! I would consider this the last chapter, and the next one (which I have already started) as a sort of epilogue for these idiots. However, I am considering making a second series of works, more in a one-shot format, as a sort of what takes place after this fic. I'm not quite sure and I'm rambling but thank you so so so much for staying with me through this. This is the biggest work I ever had the confidence to upload anywhere so thank you thank you thank you! So much! And I hope y'all can sit tight while I wrap this mess up!

Theo felt like he was choking, a horrible gurgle of words clogging his throat. The diminutive gasping breaths he drew, cold air burning it’s way through his body to settle in his lungs, seemed to freeze him from the inside out. His fingers and toes had gone numb from the cold long ago, that and the fear that threatened to crack his carefully crafted image of the man he was today. The rawness of Boris’s words and the weight of them was enough to send him reeling. They seemingly pressed in on Theo, his body threatening to cave under the pressure of it all. The feeling isn’t unfamiliar, not in the slightest, many nights he felt like this. His body, his chest, was collapsing in on him with sorrow and grief. His mind itching for drugs or alcohol to grant him the ability to turn a blind eye. He longed for that ability that substances gave to house the hole in his chest as if it belonged to somebody else entirely. It was something he was numb to during the day, only daring to sneak a peek at it when he was at his worst. Lying in the middle of a dusty road, eyes focused on the moon, waiting for a car. Underneath the surface of the pool, the moon only reduced to a silver shimmer of grey above him with chlorine stinging his eyes and lungs aching for air. Now, Theo felt that familiar drowning sensation for completely different reasons. He was no longer fifteen in Vegas, but he still sat across from Boris, his eyes focused on him, seeing  _ through  _ him. 

They both shivered from the cold on the patio of an outdoor pool. In fucking Amsterdam of all places, Theo shakes his head bitterly. But hell, anything is better than Vegas, and Theo felt like he was drowning regardless of where he was. Only now, it wasn’t water clogging his throat and stinging at his eyes, but a horrible mangling of words threatening to claw their way out, desperate to push past his lips. Everything he’d wanted to say to the man in front of him, every little word pushing themselves rising to the surface remains trapped in his throat. A garbled string of confessions and apologies piling on top of one another. Anything Theo had ever wished to say, and things he had already said, congealing into a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow past. A choked  _ I’m sorry _ entwining with the single word  _ Love  _ in his mind.  _ I love you’s _ and assortments of swears gathering together, rubbing his throat raw, choking himself on the air in his lungs, making his mouth go dry.

All the while Boris sat, eyes shiny with something Theo couldn’t bring himself to identify. Theo knew it’d bring another stab of guilt to his chest if he tried to decipher the expression. Some part of himself screaming that no matter what he would say, he’d brought that expression onto Boris. Nothing he could  _ say _ would ever fix it, Theo was certain of it. Words, in all truth, are ugly hollow promises compared to what was truly working its way through Theo. Words had no possible way to explain, in any language, how much he needed to convey. Theo was almost desperate for Boris to do something so that he didn't have to force what he felt into words. Yet, Boris sat, unblinking and unmoving.

In truth, Theo was almost terrified of how much he felt. Years of numbness gnawing away at him, a silent scream with each pill, desperate to ignore each time he had chosen, time and time again, the wrong path. He was  _ scared _ , downright  _ scared _ by the ways he always felt at the moment, with Boris, like a child after watching their first horror movie. Heart leaping at the smallest sound, chest tight and air heavy in the lungs. However, the most startling part was how he wanted to feel again. The desperate ache that settled deep in his bones, to feel the hole in his chest fill once more. Theo prepared even for the hardest days full of grief, memories, and nightmares, and wanted to feel what it was like to be alive again. His entire chest, clogged with emotion and words unsaid, begged him not to spend his life wading through the murky waters of days ahead, a pre-planned path with expectations and empty smiles.  _ No _ . Theo wanted to feel it all. Anger and sadness, happiness, and excitement, for once, he felt as if the door was finally opened to the possibility of it. And he was terrified.

“I missed you.” Theo’s voice catches the second he opens his mouth, tripping over the words. Refusing to lift his eyes to meet Boris’s. For once, Theo allows himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Although his confession wasn’t profound by any means, it was honest. Probably one of the truest things he’d said in his entire life. “I don’t want to just, fucking leave and never talk again, Boris.” Theo wrings his hands in his lap, knowing if he didn’t do something, the tears gathering in his eyes would spill over. He can’t lose Boris again. Of course, he had that selfish desire already rooted in his chest. The longing to never leave his side again. A plea for the chance to fall into some sort of routine with one another all over again. This time Theo hoped he would allow himself to feel that bit of happiness Boris seemed to radiate, to learn how to be happy himself. It was implausible of course, to have Boris all to himself once again, but god did he crave it.

Theo had wholly expected Boris to grasp at his knee again, or laugh and say something about how Theo was being melodramatic. Instead, Theo was tugged from his seat by his upper arm, quite roughly too, as Boris threw his arms around Theo, hooking his chin over Theo’s shoulder with a shaky sigh. Theo didn’t even register the blanket, the only thing keeping him from getting pneumonia, fell in a crumpled heap into the chair. He instantly latched onto Boris like he was a life preserver in choppy seas, and Theo was a castaway.

Theo’s hands struggled to find purchase against Boris’s coat. When he did, Theo gripped the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white, burying his nose in Boris’s hair for good measure. His entire body felt as if it was becoming undone from the sensation of Boris’s cold cheek pressed against his own. It was  _ Boris _ . So purely  _ Boris _ . His voice barely above a whisper, he repeated Theo's sentiment back. A hushed  _ I missed you too, Potter _ , so soft Theo thought he’d imagined it before Boris repeated the statement again.

Boris let go too quickly. Stepping backward, the bite of cold air hit Theo once again, and he smiled in spite of himself. Boris didn’t back away entirely, only enough to grab the blanket from behind Theo and throw it around Theo’s shoulders with a laugh. Boris shook his head at the sight. Both of their eyes red-rimmed and watery, hands shaking and hearts beating painfully against their ribs. Theo fears for a foolish second, that he’d crack down the middle when Boris grabs the back of his neck, bringing their foreheads together. Theo allows himself to smile. To breathe. Just for a moment. 

For once, maybe for the first time as long as Theo can remember, there’s nothing he finds himself struggling to say. His chest feeling whole and his arms shakily snaking around Boris, wrapping them both in a tight embrace. Theo feels like he’s hot to the touch. Alive. Whole and light, wondering briefly how emptiness could have been so heavy, and he had not drowned years ago. And maybe, just maybe, it’s because he knew, somewhere, that it was because  _ this _ , Boris and himself, was an inevitable outcome. In one way or another, he’d always find his way back to Boris. It was Boris, the wild impulsive mess he is, who was the one who would teach him, _ to show him _ , how to live again.


	6. Epilouge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is it! The final chapter of a 5-month long project. In all honesty, it's probably my favorite (and longest) fic I have ever worked on! Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed what started out as a 2,000-word prompt and evolved into a 20k (ish) long fic about these two bastards.  
> \--  
> I will also be uploading an epilogue series that's basically just a self-indulgent collection of Boreo fluff with a bit of a plot sprinkled somewhere in there, and it might but slightly OOTP but fuck, who can blame me, these two shits deserve to be happy and if that involves a cheesy conclusion so be it <3

It was cold in Belgium. Colder than what Theo expected when he first agreed to spend what was supposed to be his last two days in Europe with Boris. However, those two days quickly fell away into a blurred period of two weeks. Those weeks were spent moping around Boris’s apartment in Antwerp, Theo practically coughing his lungs out and shooting penicillin into his body like it was heroin.  As it turns out, spending a week locked in a freezing hotel room, riddled with flu offered the perfect circumstances for pneumonia to work its way into his lungs. Boris, having taken the liberty of canceling Theo’s flight back to the states, hovered around Theo for the entirety of those two weeks, offering up joints and crappy takeout in his attempt of playing nurse. Boris, throughout Theo's entire stay, did not seem the least bit dejected whenever his efforts to comfort Theo were shot down. Each attempt to throw an arm over Theo’s shoulder was shrugged away, every casual touch and brush of hands was always followed by Theo going stiff in his seat, turning away on the couch, or rolling away from Boris in the mess of blankets Theo claimed as his bed. Only when Theo was half awake, in between fitful bouts of fever-induced sleep, was Boris able to card a comforting hand through his sweat-drenched hair. However, when it was obvious Theo's fever was about to break, Boris had begun pulling strings in order to find Theo a ticket home, as much as he wanted him to stay. By nothing short of a miracle, Boris was able to find a non-stop flight from Amsterdam to the John F. Kennedy International Airport for January eighth. And while Theo admittedly still felt like shit, he was eager to fly home and put a few thousand miles of distance between himself and Boris. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Boris’s constant worrying, it was a sight Theo observed with a cloudy sense of delight. The soft mutters of ‘ _Always taking care of you, Potter_ ’ as Boris shuffled through his flat, heating up broth on the stove for them to share. One morning especially, after the first night he spent at Boris’s after coming down with pneumonia, Theo awoke to the gentle caress of Boris’s fingers in his hair, mistaking Theo to still be asleep. In the moment, he had leaned into it without a thought, drowsy and nauseous, aching for comfort, and later, felt the full effect of the guilt twisting in his stomach, and he was left to wonder if that was the reason he was emptying the meager contents of his stomach to the toilet moments later, or the freezer burnt toaster strudel Boris had offered him for breakfast. From that point forward, and from the deep-seated  _ want _ that had settled in Theo’s chest from those touches, he made it a point to avoid them at every turn during his stay in Belgium. That was until it came time to say goodbye.

* * *

They sat side by side as Gyuri drove them the two hours to the Schiphol Airport. Boris's hand, adorned with silver rings and bands on all his fingers (except his left-hand's ring finger, Theo noted) drummed impatiently on Theo’s thigh. Boris stared out the window the entire time, fingers drumming and leg bouncing as he watched the scenery pass by, and Theo made no move to break his unusual silence. He hadn’t meant to stay in Antwerp as long as he had, and nor did he mean for the ache in his chest that has been present ever since childhood, to grow to such a size that it hurt to look at Boris and not know if this would be the last time they’d see one another. It was all too easy for Theo to ache for Boris, as easy as swallowing a shot or crushing a pill. Boris was an addiction, the true humanity of the man, and the dependency Theo had built in those two weeks, despite the minimal touches, becoming addicted to his mere presence certainly felt inevitable. 

“Too bad you had to get sick, eh?” Gyuri chimed from the front seat, and Theo caught a bit of his smile from the rearview mirror, “Boris said something about taking you to  _ The Groeningemuseum _ ,” he then shifted his gaze to Boris. Noticing his gloomy expression as he frowned out the window, breath steaming up the glass, Gyuri quickly shut his mouth and shrugged, “Probably not the best. Museums might not put you in the best of moods, huh Fyodor?” The nickname was his last attempt of lightening the mood in the car and was quickly abandoned the second Theo gave a sympathetic hum of agreement, suddenly desperate to delve into the chaos of airport terminals and welcome the flooding of anxiety that came with the crowds in comparison to the pressing silence of an ill-tempered Boris. 

If they had been a few years younger, Theo would have taken it upon himself to, quite literally, knock Boris from his stupor with a fist to the shoulder or the nose. Only, they weren’t boys anymore, and Theo decided to let him brood in silence, trying to block out the way Boris’s fingers had seized their tapping on his thigh, and come to rest atop it instead, squeezing tightly on the occasion. 

His departure felt as rushed as arrival in Amsterdam. Without any bags to tug from the trunk, Gyuri waved him off without exiting the driver’s seat. Though brief, it was as personal as Theo would expect from a man in his position, quick handshake and a warm smile, a flurry of well-wishes and a muttered ‘fly-safe’ scattered through the empty exchange. However, when Theo turned to Boris he was already out of the car, flipping his collar up against the early January chill. 

Theo opened his car door, near clipping Boris in the hip as he did so, and climbing out to stand next to him. Winds wept through the street, ruffling his hair and stinging at his cheeks as Boris tucked his hands into his coat pockets, grimacing at the building before them. Even with the coat he borrowed from Boris ( _ Just take it, Potter, is too big on me anyway! _ ) pulled tightly around him, the cold still sent a chill racing down his spine. 

“Just our luck, hm?” Boris bites, his breath puffing out in a cloud of fog as he speaks. Theo cocks his head to the side, hoping Boris would sense the motion more so than see it, both their eyes still fixed on the entrance before them. 

“What?” Theo prods, jabbing his elbow playfully into Boris’s side, his mood the same as, if not worse, than the bitter attitude he had adopted early that morning as they headed out the door. Boris grunts what Theo thinks was supposed to be a laugh of some sort. 

“The one time you come to Amsterdam! Coldest it has been here in twenty-two years!” He scoffs, shrugging his shoulders as a family of four pushes their way through the doors, luggage in hand, attempting to corral two rowdy children, clearly unaffected by any form of jet-lag their parents seem to be experiencing. Theo, in an attempt to keep from staring at the scene being made before him, flicks his eyes to his watch. 

“Boris,” his voice warbles around the name, cautious, careful not to disturb whatever fragile state Boris is in. At the sound of his name, Boris turns towards Theo, and he’s finally able to look at Boris properly for the first time that morning. His eyes had lost their usual mischievous glint, his cheeks looked hollow as if he had been scraped clean, inside and out with dark shadows clinging to the skin underneath his eyes. Frankly, he looked like shit. Not in the typical way Boris looked like shit, with the mysterious allure of tired eyes that definitely did not belong to someone at the mere age of twenty-four. He  _ had  _ spent the last two weeks ensuring Theo didn’t choke on his own vomit while sleeping instead of running whatever crime ring he ran. The words in Theo’s mouth die at the sight, the things left unsaid on the tip of his tongue, falling away as he flicks one more look at those tired eyes. 

“ _Да, да_ , I know Potter, plane leaves in forty-five minutes, very important,” Boris flaps his hands upon noticing Theo had lost his train of thought, filling the silence. Side-stepping to position himself behind Theo. Boris shoves him forward towards the windows, the roar of engines and the swarms of post-holiday tourists struggling to get home, back to wherever they came filling the air, the painful swell of tinnitus beginning in Theo's ears. The thought of joining the swarm, once appealing for the briefest of moments, comes back in full force, the reality of the situation settling on Theo’s shoulders and causing him to dig the heels of his dress shoes into the concrete. Facing Boris, and Boris alone at this moment. Though not preferred, staring into his face, exhausted and looking about how terrible Theo felt, was definitely better than entering the airport earlier than necessary. It was the thought that this being his final chance to see Boris, to have a proper goodbye, that propelled Theo to turn around and actually face him. 

“I should actually be heading in, I don't know if they'd let you in or-” The words are bitter on Theo’s tongue, trailing off as he stands face to face with Boris. Wrapped in one of his coats, his passport clutched loosely in one hand, and the other hanging limply at his side, fingers twitching,  _ aching _ , to reach out, the fear of this being the final time to do so settling in the pit of his stomach, left to feel like a fool. 

“Then go,” Boris shrugs, a failure of an attempt to be nonchalant. The bitterness in his voice was plain, it was the same tone he’d take whenever Theo used to finish the last of his good vodka without him or whenever Xandra had chosen to hide her cigarettes. He sounded disappointed. “Am not keeping you! Ticket cost me arm and leg. I will kill you myself if you miss the flight.” Theo bristles. He didn’t expect much from Boris at all. Certainly not after pushing him away for the last two weeks, but now, staring down the barrel of a completely metaphorical gun, unlike he had three weeks ago, dread fills his stomach that this could be how he remembers their final days spent together. Theo shrugging off Boris’s touches like they’d make him sick and the hours spent between nausea induced sleep filled with hatred towards himself for wanting them all the same. Boris was always brave, and if Theo was any less of a coward, he would lower his head and would have kissed Boris right then in front of Schiphol. Only, Theo was a coward, and all he could do was offer a smile. 

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Is the best he could manage. So many things catching in his throat, the fear of hearing the words come from his lips is the only thing stopping him. He’s well-past what anyone thinks of him at this point, especially having ditched his own engagement party and fucking off to Europe for nearly a month without a word. Boris was always the brave one, that was for fucking certain. 

“No ‘thank you for taking care of me Borya?’ Some guest you are!” Boris grins, it almost seems like the expression splits him down the middle as he does smile, something flashing behind his eyes for a moment, so brief Theo couldn’t begin to decipher it. 

“I’ve never called you ‘Borya’ once in my life,” Theo shoots back, chuffing Boris on the side of his head. Boris ducks away, the half-hearted grin still splattered across his features, silence settling heavily between them. Eyes boring into one another, searching for some sort of excuse to wait a little longer, for  _ something _ on their list of many  _ something’s  _ to be resolved. Theo almost falls to his knees when Boris speaks first. 

“Many things left to say, no?” 

“If you start talking about feelings or some shit like that I’ll call the police over here, right now,” Theo grins, tapping the toe of his shoe against Boris’s. He can’t allow himself another painful goodbye, not again, not with Boris. 

“Not a very good idea, I can’t imagine my associates being very happy with you,” Tilting his head, Boris gestures widely with his arms, nearly hitting Theo square in the chest with a sweeping hand in the process. “You’d be hunted down like wild boar. You would not stand a chance,” He grins, turning his attention back to Theo, and for a moment the smile almost seems genuine. “Feelings are stupid anyways.” Theo can’t help but nod in agreement, knowing all too well how fucking feelings can muddle even the simplest of things, and every decision seems to be ten times harder when shit like  _ feelings  _ get in the way. “How’s this for you,” Boris straightens as if proposing a business model and the mental image of  _ Boris _ doing such a thing almost sends Theo into hysterics. Only the small glint in Boris’s eye that had decided to return for a shimmering moment keeps him grounded. “Instead, let’s say, so many things to do instead, hm?” That actually gets a small chuckle from Theo. 

“Oh really?”

“What is so funny, Potter?” Boris feigns hurt, extracting his hands from their pockets and crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back against the car parked behind him.

“Well, what do we have left to do, you and me. Steal another painting?” Boris grins at the remark, lightly punching Theo in the shoulder before walking past, making his way towards the entrance of the airport. It only takes Theo a moment to catch on, quickly matching his stride with Boris’s and walking side by side. 

“I was thinking on the smaller side,” Boris grins cheekily up at him, and it flood’s Theo’s body with heat. It was like they were fifteen again, Boris plotting to lift some microwavable meals from the local Costco, Theo unaware of the plot and yet, he was always ready to follow without hesitation, with only minor complaints along the way. 

“Smaller? Didn’t think you’d be the kind of guy to willingly downgrade from organized theft of a priceless art piece,” In any other circumstance, Theo would be sick with anxiety around discussing the painting so openly, but with the slew of foreign languages pressing against his ears, and Boris by his side, he couldn’t bring himself to care. In less than an hour, he’d be hovering over the Atlantic. 

“No, no, not  _ smaller _ , uh, you know,” Boris snaps his fingers impatiently, trying to muster the right word, rifling through a mental compilation of dictionaries in various languages. His eyes seem to light up as he stumbles across the correct one, a word that sounds vaguely Polish to Theo’s untrained ears, “ _ Intymny _ !” 

“Intimate?” Theo frowns at Boris’s over-enthusiastic nod,  _ Thank fuck for cognates.  _ Theo’s pace falters only for a moment upon realizing the suggestive nature of the word, but he stopped just long enough to fall behind. Only seeming to notice after the fact, Boris turns on his heels to Theo frowning and shaking his head, glasses falling lopsided on his face and his blond hair ruffling as a powerful gust of wind sends their coattails flapping. 

“What the hell do you mean by intimate?” Theo prods taking note of how Boris had doubled back and pushed against the intermittent waves of people on their way inside, to meet Theo in the middle. Boris waves his hand dismissively, only a mere foot away from Theo now, flicking the hair from his eyes with a sharp jerk of his head. 

“Believe it or not, I do not wish to drag you into any more of my dirty work,” He sighs, grabbing the edges of his coat with his hands so tightly, Theo can see Boris’s knuckles turning white. 

“Oh really?” Theo can’t help but let the sarcasm creep into his voice, “Then what do you suggest? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think your only hobby is committing felonies,” Theo cocks his head, an old challenging gesture of theirs, and Boris has never been one to back down and yet now he only shakes his head and trudges forward towards the airport, slush creeping further into Theo’s shoes as he trails behind. 

They make it to the entrance much faster than Theo would have liked. It's not that he enjoys loitering around in the cold, wind stinging his cheeks and a brooding Boris leading the charge through the crowds of people, but a pit grew in his stomach as they stood in front of the entryway. Too many things buried away, unsaid, and loose ends between them, and Theo couldn’t help but feel that this was a final goodbye.

“Boris, there’s-” Theo puffs out his cheeks, tilting his head towards the sky and praying to whatever God out there that he didn’t sound like the jealous, clingy girlfriend he pictured himself as, his words having left his throat in a more pleading manner than intended. 

“Too many things to say,” Boris offers, a halfhearted smile spreading across his cheeks, “I know.” Theo is about to respond. He truly is, and his mouth is pinched into a thin line as he struggles to muster any words of value when Boris swoops in and places a rough palm on each side of his face, planting a kiss on Theo’s lips before pulling back just as quickly, a cheeky smile and hands still on either side of Theo’s face and for a moment, Theo can’t help but feel fifteen again on the sidewalk, prepared to abandon Vegas. A kiss exchanged in a barely-there sort of way, a brief touch of lips, words left unsaid put into action. Theo can’t help but scrunch his nose and jerk his face backward, Boris’s hands falling limply to his sides. 

“Why is it that you only kiss me when you’re saying goodbye?” It’s the first thing out of Theo’s mouth, and his face instantly warms at the notion, thankful when Boris barks out a laugh seconds later, his mood seemingly lifted for a moment. 

“Is that your bone to pick with me?” Boris cocks his head to the side, crossing his arms in front of his chest as a particularly strong burst of wind pushes past them. “Well Potter, I will kiss you next time I see you then. A ‘hello’ instead of ‘goodbye.’ Go, you have a flight to catch,” and with that, Boris squeezes Theo’s arm one final time and a nudge in the ribs before turning back to the car, quickly swallowed by the crowd once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance)  
> Да - Yes  
> Intymny- Intimate


End file.
